Your Eyes Could Make Constellations Look Like Mistakes

An infinite number of stars bustle in light with the moon; how glorious, if only they could sing! Such a sight, the millions of patterns they beckon you to create with your eyes, using their radiance to guide you along your path. Touche, it's a lot like love, but, oh isn't it time for it to be recognized as so much more? Beauty could barely withstand the faceless stars.

Witnessing to the moon as he wraps his light around the stars, he's so seductive, it's like he tricked them with venom. Yet they swoon before his light, a mere fragment of all their love showing, for not a soul could be enlightened with the magnitude of their adornment.

Comparatively, your eyes could make the constellations look like God's scribbled mistakes; comparatively, I've already forgotten the purpose of my living, for you've replaced that meaning with something much more impressive: your breathing.

I've told you before, you're beautiful, (as beautiful as the infinite stars), but your existence is getting too much; you're drowning out the starlight with your impeccable beauty.

Too soon have you submitted to the gentle gases of which engulf the starlight; Baby, you could out shine the sun.

And I partially did believe beauty had its limits; nothing could possibly surpass my stars' and the moon's delicate masquerade of impeccable beauty. Then, however, your entity slowed to a stop in front of me, and suddenly the stars dimmed, looking like that of a former ugly of which I can't quite state.

You've set the limits for the desired beauty and unlike I believed before, I know now nothing could possibly surpass perfection.